MidLife Crisis
by LadieLazarus
Summary: Wes Janson has a bad night.


Title: Mid-Life Crisis

Fandom: Star Wars

Rating: PG-13, I guess. I dunno. Probably not that bad.

Summary: Wes has a bad day.

Written for Wes Janson's month at the Pilot-A-Thon.

It was rare for Wes Janson to get off of Coruscant these days, and even rarer for him to be able to accomlish it with Hobbie Klivian in tow.

So, when the three day block opened up in which they could both afford to get out of the city and onto the plush, comfy, and overly fermented corridors of the _Errant Venture_, Wes jumped at the opportunity.

The former battleship was just as luxurious as Janson remembered, and he had wasted no time booking a multi-room suite for himself and his wingman at a price that reflected Booster's high opinion of Wedge Antilles and, vicariously, all who wore the Rogue Squadron unit patch.

Hours later, unpacked, sanisteamed, shaved, and dressed in their best clothes, Wes and Hobbie were seated at the small bar in the Hot Streak Casino. Booster had, of course, built a full cantina next to the casino, but there were also small bars throughout for those who didn't feel like leaving their gambling.

Janson didn't feel like leaving the many employees of the _Errant Venture_. Booster's uniform policy for his employees seemed to indicate that distracted gamblers lost more money. The dealers ranged in gender and species, but they were all gorgeous, and clad in the subtle not-quite-naked but not-quite-dressed way that Wes had come to expect of the Star Destroyer turned luxury resort.

"This is the life, Hobbs." Janson smiled, tipping his bottle of Lomin Ale at Hobbie in a salute. "This is what makes all the headaches worth it."

"Two days ago you said that those Twi'lek dancers at that dive bar back home were what made all the headaches worth it."

"And I meant it." Janson nodded seriously. "But now I realize the flaw in my logic."

"Obviously." Hobbie rolled his eyes, draining a considerable portion of his own bottle. "It all makes sense now."

"Of course it does." Wes shrugged. "Did you want to get another drink here or -" Wes trailed off, and Hobbie turned to regard him, somewhat annoyed.

"Or what?"

"What?" Janson echoed. Hobbie followed his friend's gaze.

Standing at the bar was one of the dealers. She was facing away from them, and leaning against the bar while she waited for whatever drink the human, male bartender was making for her. Dilligently if he knew what was good for him.

Booster's uniform was put to good use on this one. It fit her like a second skin. The red and gold brocade vest, in any other establishment, might have been worn over a shirt. Instead, in this instance, her arms and the skin in between the laces that worked their way up the back were bared in tantalizing fashion. The way that her dark-gold hair was swept up and piled on her head in a loose, but comlicated arrangement made sure that all of the skin was visible, too.

The uniform was finished with a black skirt that was just long enough to actually be a full item of clothing, sheer black stockings, and half-calf boots, that added at least four inches to her height, and were clearly not meant to be stood in for long periods of time.

She'd accessorized her uniform with several gold bracelets on one arm, and four sets of shiny, gold hoops, in descending order of size, hung from her ears.

She scratched the back of one leg with the toe of her boot and Hobbie snorted.

"Wes, she's a child."

"She's not that young. Besides, if Booster's employing her, then she has to be at least legal." He shrugged, picking a trali nut from the bowl on the bar in front of him and popped it into his mouth.

"Yes, I can see that working well. 'Hello there, miss. Tell me, are there any galactic laws in effect that cause me to be thrown into prison for sleeping with you? Just common decency, you say? Well, you're in luck. I don't have that. Let's go.'" Hobbie shook his head, his typical expression of vague disbelief fixed on his face.

"I was going to be a little less direct about it, but if you think that would work." Wes smiled boyishly.

"I think I'm just going to sit here and watch you fail. And then, when she's painted what has to be her thousandth 'annoying-guy-hitting-on-me' kill marking up there, I'm going to buy you the drink you'll surely require."

"Watch and continue to be amazed, Klivian." Wes pushed himself up off of his barstool and headed, across the room to the adjacent bar. He spoke up when he was a few feet away from her. "You must hear this all the time, but I feel inclined to tell you that-" The girl turned around and Wes felt the bottom drop out of his stomach altogether. Suddenly, he missed the Battle of Endor.

It was Myri Antilles. Wedge's youngest daughter. Wedge. Antilles's. _Youngest. _Daughter.

Hooboy. He was going to a special, special hell when Wedge killed him the minute he landed back on Coruscant.

"Uncle Wes?" Myri smiled, stepping forward to hug him. He returned the embrace, albeit briefly, holding the girl back at arms length to fully take in her ensemble.

"Your father would kill you if he knew what you were wearing." He shook his head, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest. Myri snorted in response.

"My father can get over it." She shrugged slim shoulders. "It's part of the job, and I'm making a ton of money."

"At the risk of your father somehow knowing that I said this and taking out a hit on me, I can believe it." Wes nodded and Myri giggled into her hand.

"I guess I'll take that as a compliment."

"As it was intended." Wes nodded. "How long are you working? If you're here and I'm here, then I'm pretty sure that fake-uncle S.O.P. Indicates that I should take you for dinner, and I'm sure that Hobbie agrees."

"Hobbie's here?" Myri craned her head, catching sight of Klivian lounging at the bar. She waved, and he waved back. Janson could see the barely suppressed mirth on his wingman's face. "That'd be great!" She turned, picking up the glass of something that the bartender had put on the counter for her.

"Well, then. What time are you done, here?"

"In about two hours, actually. It's my short day." She shrugged. "You want me to just come by your room? I can tell you what all there is, and you guys can decide where we're going. If it's going to be free, I'm not going to complain about much of anything."

"That'd be fine. We're in room," Wes dug in his pocket, pulling the access card out and reading off the number, "Aurek 4915."

Myri whistled.

"That's an expensive floor. Booster must like you or something." She grinned. "All right. I'm heading back to work before I don't have work to head back to. Feel free to come by my table." Still smiling, she disappeared into the crown with a wave.

Wes made his way back to Hobbie who, by now, was no longer even attempting to control his amusement. The blonde man had nearly fallen off of his stool and was shaking, tears running down his face.

"Oh, man. This is going to be excellent." He managed to get out between bursts of laughter.

"What is?" Wes sighed, slumping miserably into his own stool, affecting the attitude normally carried by the man to his left.

"The amount of credits you're going to have to spend on me to keep me from telling Wedge."

"My life is over." Wes dropped his forehead onto his crossed arms. "Hobbie?"

"Yeah?"

"There is no amount of credits that will keep you from telling Wedge, is there?"

"Probably not, no" Hobbie shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "But, I will tell you that you can start by picking up the bar tab."

Wes groaned.


End file.
